


prettiest girl in the morgue

by maggotbrainz (pinkmaggit)



Series: heirate mich [1]
Category: Metallica
Genre: Autopsies, Blood and Injury, Consensual Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pain Kink, Reanimation, Rough Oral Sex, Wet & Messy, cause y'know. corpses can't exactly say yes to having an autopsy done on them, cut cut cut me up and fuck fuck fuck me up !!, dont worry theres no necrophilia, improper care of injuries, meet-cute on the examination table!, sweet at the end cause im all abt that lmao, unsanitary. probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26068999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkmaggit/pseuds/maggotbrainz
Summary: now my blood is dirty water,drain it, bleed it, wash it down the drain+or: a corpse, one fucked-up autopsy, roughly 130 stitches, and a blowjob
Relationships: Kirk Hammett/Jason Newsted
Series: heirate mich [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905574
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	prettiest girl in the morgue

**Author's Note:**

> warning: this fic includes graphic depictions of medical procedures, injuries, medical examinations conducted on a corpse, mild gore, and lack of consent (due to one party being dead and having an autopsy performed on them). there is no actual death in this fic, it is merely referenced to, and there is no necrophilia, either. if you're reading this disclaimer and you're having second thoughts, i suggest you don't proceed.
> 
> ───
> 
> anyways. what it says on the tin lmao  
> the legality of this is dubious, i did as much research as possible but im not a medical professional so accuracy is probably slightly off. it is what it is. also i just wanted to see how nasty i could possibly get. and cause i saw an old scan of the girls and corpses porno mag on tumblr and. was inspired. 
> 
> (do not look at me!!!! do not !! i am unknowable !!! honestly i still can't believe i wrote this lmao )
> 
> uhh. '87 jase, '93 kirk
> 
> lyrics from can't cool me down - car seat headrest
> 
> enjoy :'-)

When you're paid to put your hands in dead bodies, there’s not a lot that can faze you after that.

Kirk likes his job, anyways. There’s no question about it: teaching had been something he’d never expected, but it had called to him, almost, and soon enough he could hardly imagine his life _without_ it. 

There really was nothing like the inner thrill he got from being able to reveal the beauty of the human form. He got to show his students all the inner machinations, got them to appreciate the delicate workings of the human body, the interweaving fragility and strength, with something close to reverence. 

And he's a good teacher; his students can sense his devotion to his work, see the enjoyment he gets from it, and he’s built up a reputation as one of the best professors on campus because of his commitment to hands-on learning.

The hands-on aspect might be the most important, by this point; after poking around in corpses for a living, Kirk’s gotten desensitized to gross, weird shit. It’s expected, to be honest. 

Sometimes, since their university was cheap, he’d get the leftovers from the med students. Those were the ones that needed a lot of clean up afterwards, since they’d come in with bullet wounds or punctured tissue. And Kirk gets it, the importance in understanding how organs and tissue are affected by blunt trauma, after all. But fuck, those corpses were messy as hell.

Anyways. So he’s used to getting elbow-deep in nasty. 

Which is why, when he arrives forty minutes before class, sipping from his to-go mug of coffee and tiredly rubbing the sleep from his eyes, it doesn’t even startle him when Lars sidles up beside him, bloody apron on over his lab coat. 

Lars is one of his current graduate students, assisting with the autopsies and grading all the tests from the undergrads. He's a snarky little shit, but he's also funny and a dedicated worker, and Kirk is indebted to him for all his help.

Kirk dumps his bag at the front desk of the lecture hall, yawning as Lars files in behind him.

“One of the corpses fuckin’ regenerated.”

Kirk just blinks dumbly. “What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Lars nods. “Cliff showed me this morning, dude. S’fucking creepy. He even got the pictures, from when the body got packed up, and compared them to this morning…”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

Lars shakes his head.

And like, Kirk might be gullible sometimes. He’s probably trusting to a fault. But this? C’mon; it’s like Lars and Cliff aren’t even _trying_. Kirk rolls his eyes, turning on his monitor. “Ha ha, very funny. Tell Cliff to grab a couple from the freezer and send ‘em up, class starts soon-”

“No, Kirk, I’m serious,” Lars interjects, and his eyes are steely, _panic_ swimming in them. “I’m not- I’m not shitting you, man. I’m not.”

Kirk swallows. He knows when Lars is joking around, is used to the flicker of mirth in his eyes and his little smirk. This isn’t one of those times, and it scares Kirk, a little.

“Okay,” he manages, chewing his lip, “Show me.”

───

The hospital’s morgue is quiet, cold as they enter.

Cliff’s there, in his baggy blue scrubs and apron, big gloves pulled up over his elbows. (Kirk’s learned that Cliff’s a little bit of a germaphobe: hilarious, for someone who handles dead bodies on a daily basis). He carefully wheels the metal gurney over to them, black plastic body bag zipped shut on top. 

That’s another thing: there’s no fancy clear plastic bags for them, not at this point.

“This’s the one,” Cliff sighs, readjusting his gloves tiredly, “It’d been set aside for you guys, along with a couple others. I went to prep it this morning and thought I’d mixed it up, for a sec.”

Kirk gulps, “You got- you got the file?” Lars shifts next to him, nervously fiddling with his gloves.

Cliff nods, passing him a plastic-coated folder. 

Now, most of the bodies they get are ones that’ve been released from county custody, the unclaimed ones: no relatives, hardly any information. There’s some dirty deaths snuck in, once left to rot and now repurposed. Morbid, but it is what it is. What little identification can usually be gathered is given to them with the body all wrapped up, birth certificates and coroners evaluations shoved haphazardly into the folder.

Kirk flips the folder open, scans through the papers. 

‘... _Jason Curtis Newsted… 26 years of age… identified from driver’s licence in wallet… found on the floor of an apartment… 4 bullet wounds through the back… blunt trauma to the neck and throat… no available family…’_

Shit. Kirk wonders what could've happened to the kid, for him to die like that.

There’s a little picture, tucked in the file. Kirk slides his finger over it slowly, pulls it up to see it better in the light. 

The kid’s young, sweet-looking, all curly hair and wide eyes and crooked grin. Kirk flips past quickly, his gut squirming, eyes catching on the photographs from the coroner, the documentation of the wounds across the kid’s stomach and back and neck.

There’s the ragged, inflamed swell of flesh, pink and red, bloody and swollen around the dark holes, four little punctures right next to the small of his back and emerging in haphazard, scattered fashion between his right hip and his navel. The blood’s dried across his stomach, flaky and rusty and stark, so stark against his pale skin. When Kirk looks closer, he can just make out the slight inflammation of the kid’s peritoneum, swollen up out of the wounds, an obvious sign of some abdominal organ having been punctured. 

It’s brutal, shockingly so, against the fragile-looking jut of the kid’s hipbone and his slim waist.

“Jesus,” Lars whispers, “It doesn’t get any easier to look at.”

 _Jesus is right_ , Kirk thinks.

Kirk slides the photograph sheet to the side, revealing the second set. This time it’s the kid’s neck, head tilted back to further bare the skin to the light, the slightest bit of his jaw and lips visible. There’s the blackish-purple scatter of bruises, heavy and overwhelming, and reddened, scraped skin. Blood, thick and dark, trails over thin lips and down a strong chin from a bloody nose. 

Kirk feels sick, for a second, a fucked-up surge of pity overtaking him.

There’s a final set of photos, zipped up in a plastic bag, with a small scrap of paper stapled to it. The writing’s small, cramped, but Kirk can just make out that it’s from the county. Kirk looks closer: there’s a human-shaped stain on carpet, dark and thick, from where the kid had probably bled out. 

He swallows, closing the folder. Cliff’s watching them, eyes cool, face blank: he’s been the head of the morgue for ages, and he’s seen more than Kirk ever has, when it comes to shit like this. Cliff sighs, shifting, bags under his eyes thrown into stark focus under the fluorescent lights overhead. He looks _haunted_ , almost.

“Where’s- what happened?” Kirk asks, pointing at the inconspicuous body bag on the gurney, the plastic like an oil slick under the lights. 

Cliff shrugs. “Dunno,” he admits, grabbing the zipper of the bag gingerly, “Came in this morning, checked on it, and nearly had a fuckin’ heart attack. Lars, can you grab the other end?” Lars pinches the plastic, holds it steady as Cliff tugs hard on the zipper, nearly yanking the bag off the gurney before the zipper slides open. Kirk leans in closer.

Sure enough, the kid’s in there, skin pale against the black plastic, stiff where he lays on the gurney. He’s thin, all lean muscle and the soft press of bone, face gentled in death, eyes closed and lips slightly parted.

He's shockingly beautiful, against the black bag. Like an angel, a Botticelli painting, like Ophelia drowning in the water, pale face tipped back to accept his fate.

The coroner’s already undressed him, already did most of the clean up, wiped up the blood and the white-grey clumps of flesh. 

And then Kirk looks down.

Where he’d been expecting inflamed flesh around thick, poorly-done stitches and reddened, warped skin, is _nothing_. Kirk trails a gloved hand over the skin of the kid’s navel, smoothing gently right where there were four holes in the photographs: now there’s just the slightest pink discolouration of flesh, scabbed over. Even the bruises on his neck have healed up, mottled sickly-yellow, faint. Kirk blinks. “ _What the fuck,_ ” he whispers. 

Cliff hums. “I know. Couldn’t believe it. Lars came down to get the cadavers for your class and I had to show him to confirm I wasn’t seeing things.”

Lars nods, murmurs “I thought it was fuckin’ fake,” as he gently adjusts his apron.

Kirk sighs, rubs his forehead with the back of his hand as he turns away. Beneath all the confusion and exhaustion and worry is also _curiosity_ , sharp and needling at his brain. It’s an urge to poke and prod and get his fingers in the mess, cut the kid- _Jason,_ his mind fills in- open, to see the most vulnerable, human parts of him, the most intriguing, the most-

“Crap, Kirk, we’ve got class in ten minutes,” Lars says, jerking Kirk out of his thoughts. He glances at the clock, watching as the little minute hand bumps forwards.

Cliff glances back at the still-open body bag. “What should I do with it?” 

Something about the depersonalization makes his stomach twist. Kirk frowns, gazes at the zipper, the thick black teeth warped along the seam, just the slightest bit of pale skin and curly hair visible.

“Can you-” he stutters, “Can you put him aside? I wanna take a look, later. I’ll come back, maybe around seven?”

Nodding, Cliff rezips the bag. It’s such a final sound, loud in the silence of the morgue. “Sure thing,” he murmurs, carefully wheeling the gurney to the side as Lars and Kirk leave, heading back to the elevators. 

Lars shoots him a glance as they wait for the elevator to descend. “You're gonna dig around for answers?”

Kirk shrugs, nods. “As much as I can.”

───

His classes seem to go by in a blur.

Cliff sends up the other cadavers for his undergrad classes and things progress smoothly enough. There's always kids who have to run out of the room to gag and hopefully get some fresh air, but the rest look determined to muscle their way through, even if they're a little pale by the end.

Kirk feels like his head’s spinning: he can't stop thinking about the kid, three floors down, body cold on the metal table and all zipped up. His healed wounds captivate Kirk.

It's _inhuman_ : even in a best-case scenario- if he'd survived- Jason would’ve been laid up in the hospital, stitched sore and stiff and pumped full of drugs, black and blue for ages. Not- not nearly blemish-free. 

_Smooth,_ Kirk's mind supplies, _soft_.

He rubs an eye tiredly, cleaning off the examination table in between classes: he scheduled all his undergrad autopsies for the same day. Makes it easier, anyways.

The clock ticks quietly, hands creeping towards four thirty. 

Kirk scrubs the metal down one last time, chucking the towels into the bin. Lars is there soon enough, wheeling in their last cadaver for the day. The gurney’s wheels creak and groan under the weight of the body bag.

Lars helps him unload it, helps him set it out on the table as Kirk cleans the tools on the Mayo plate for the next class. Soon enough his students begin to spill through the doors, donning themselves in their lab coats and aprons and gloves, and then he's wrapped up in the blur of teaching.

It doesn't stop him from seeing Jason's face, though.

───

Cliff brings the gurney up to the examination room, wheels clicking across the tiles as he pushes it over to where Kirk's set up his tools.

“Here you go,” Cliff murmurs, unzipping the bag once again. Kirk catches the gentle curve of the kid’s cheek and he looks away, unease squirming in his guts. 

“I-” he starts, “I wanna do the x-rays, first. Just in case.” 

“You need me to call James?” Cliff murmurs. Kirk nods, “Sure, please.”

Cliff makes his way over to the intercoms, phones the radiology lab. Kirk scans over the body bag, takes in the gentle curve of a thigh, a wrist. Lets his eyes trail over the subtle bumps of Jason's ribs and the downy hair under his navel.

 _Fuck,_ it doesn't make any sense. The wounds, the spontaneous regeneration, his death.

Kirk shakes his head, suddenly, trying to dislodge the thoughts bumping around in his brain. He's not here for pity's sake: he's doing this for academic research. _Research,_ he tells himself.

Soon enough they're wheeling the gurney back into the elevator, down a floor, and along the hallway to the radiology lab, the plastic bag shiny under the fluorescent lights. When they pass under a flickering one, it throws the bags under Cliff’s eyes into stark focus. Kirk swallows, focuses on the glinting metal of the gurney, the hollow click of the wheels. 

When they enter, James is sitting behind the desk, one hand on his chin as he scrolls with his mouse, eyes trained on the monitor before flicking briefly over to the two of them.

“S’that the one?” he murmurs, voice rough, and Kirk nods. 

Cliff sighs. “I gotta go clean up. See you guys tomorrow,” he waves, heading out the door quietly and disappearing towards the elevators, the squeak of his sneakers fading.

James pulls the gurney closer, pulls the zipper down. “Damn, poor kid. Alright, gimme a sec,” he nods, pushing the gurney along as he heads farther back into the lab.

Kirk sighs, sitting on the cool plastic bench near the desk, nervously picking at the frayed hem of his gown. Rationally, he knows that he's probably not gonna get a lot out of the x-rays. But he's still, well- unsure, maybe.

James comes back soon enough. “Just waiting for the machines,” he says, and Kirk nods. “What’s up? Usually you don't do autopsies outside of class,” James asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Um,” Kirk starts, “This is gonna sound- It’s gonna sound fucking crazy. Might be easier to show you,” he murmurs, passing James the folder he's still clutching under his arm, “Here. Look at the photos.”

Taking it, James frowns, flipping it open quietly. He shuffles through the papers, confusion sliding thick across his face as he glances back and forth, before looking up at Kirk.

“What the shit?” 

Kirk nods. “I- I know. Both Cliff and Lars showed me and I hardly believed it. But it's only been, like, 12 hours and- and this kid’s patched himself up. Somehow. And we all know the county coroners aren't that talented.”

James shakes his head. “That's for fuckin’ sure,” he mumbles, staring at the photographs, “Jesus christ. Fuck, that's freaky. Wonder what happened.”

“Considering we got him?” Kirk swallows, “He's probably lucky he doesn't look _worse_. Least there's no family to- to see this.”

It's sad, but true.

Nodding, James passes him back the folder. “Think the images should be ready,” he groans, making his way slowly over to the doors at the back of the room. Kirk skates a gentle finger over the edge of the file, tenderly.

There's a squeal, and Kirk glances up to see James wheeling the gurney back over, x-rays clutched in one hand, other on the handlebar. The body bag’s been zipped up once again.

“You need help getting him back on the table?” Kirk nods, and James dutifully follows him, pushing the gurney along. Gazing out the windows as they walk, Kirk catches the orangey-cold glow from the streetlights, the sun long set. 

They’re hit with a blast of cool air as they re-enter the examination room. Unzipping the bag, the two of them transfer Jason onto the metal table, achingly frozen. It's funny: Kirk's surprised, slightly, at how light the kid is, how frail his ankles feel underneath his hands.

The scale on the table reads 135 pounds; Kirk remembers the number from the file.

James tosses him a nod, taking the gurney with him back to the elevators, and soon enough it's just Kirk, there in the silence.

Well. Him and the dead kid, if you wanted to be specific.

───

Kirk adjusts his apron, pulls his gloves back up over his wrists. 

The fan’s running, cycling to keep the air fresh. Kirk readjusts his gown, the material stiff from the industrial-strength washing machines, detergent not quite strong enough to wash out the smell and stain of blood and stomach acid and rot.

He'd already scanned through the x-rays: there’d been fractures and splintered bone, broken ribs and shards of the kid’s hip bone visible on the screen. But Kirk had expected more damage. With the kind of blunt trauma that’d come of the bullets, there should have been a lot more mess.

So he's intrigued. 

Kirk sighs, turning back to the table. He lets a finger run down over Jason's sternum, gentle. When he gazes closer, he can just make out a thin white line, stretching all the way from between his collarbones down to below his navel.

Pushing a finger along Jason’s throat, he smooths over the rough, scraped skin. The tissue of his neck feels swollen, slightly. _Likely inflamed from the damage,_ Kirk thinks.

Jason's eyes are closed. Kirk places the pad of his finger on one eyelid, pushes it open slightly; there's the cool grey of his iris, not yet cloudy, and he lets it slip closed once again.

Gripping the mandible of his jaw, it's easy enough to pull his mouth open. Jason's teeth are white, slightly crooked on his left side. Kirk pushes a finger in, smoothes over the roof of his mouth, along the back of his gums. His tongue’s still wet, soft under the pressure of Kirk's hand.

Kirk feels his heart race, and he pulls his fingers free with a nervous jerk. 

_Fuck_. 

He's sweating under his scrubs and gown. Kirk sighs, working his way down. Jason's stomach is smooth, soft under his hands, belly dusted in light hairs, skin slightly scabbed over where the bullet holes once were.

His gloves slide smoothly down, skating across a hip bone. It feels- it feels strong, normal under his fingers, Kirk thinks, gripping the side of Jason’s hip gently, squeezing just a little, his fingertips pressing into his pelvis. The x-rays had shown some damage to the back, and yet he can’t feel any deformations, any noticeable swelling or ruptures.

He watches the way Jason’s skin goes pale, pale white under the pressure of his fingertips. Kirk shakes his head, continues lower.

The kid’s legs are thin, almost frail, under his hands, thighs lean with muscle. There’s little give when Kirk squeezes tight to try and position him, latex gloves squeaking against cool skin as he shoves his thighs apart, sliding slick over the cool metal table. 

Kirk shifts his weight from one leg to the other, back slightly stiff from standing all day, stretching out his neck, the bones shifting as he winces. 

Christ, why is he doing this again? _You’re curious_ , his mind helpfully fills in, _this is a once-in-a-lifetime discovery, you really think you’d pass it up?_

He looks back at Jason. His dick is limp against his thigh, pubes trimmed. There's a small scratch, a shaving wound, likely, high up in the inner crease of his thigh.

It makes Kirk's heart pang uncomfortably at how domestic, how _familiar_ it is. How recent the wound looks, as if the kid might’ve been shaving and slipped up, cut his leg and bled in his shower. 

Right before he died. Right before his life shuddered to an end while he lay bleeding to death and terrified on the grungy carpet-

 _Jesus Christ_. Kirk shakes his head. He has to snap out of whatever reflective funk he’s sunken into. Gazing at the clock, he sees it’s already almost nine. _Is it just ‘cause I’m tired?_ Kirk thinks, staring at the body on his table. 

It’s a corpse. That’s all. 

Kirk sighs, pulling his glove up. Maybe gazing at the kid’s face keeps throwing him off, seeing how youthful he looks. And that’s funny, too. Jason isn’t much younger than him, and yet there’s something about the way he looks, all fragile slumped against the examination table, that connotes a sense of purity, almost.

Like the _Autopsy_ , by Enrique Simonet. Kirk remembers analyzing that painting, back in his art history class: the casting of light, the stain of blood, the unblemished, untainted skin of the cadaver, brutal and gorgeous all at once.

Kirk swallows. 

He’ll finish the outer examination afterwards, he resolves; at this point, though, he knows all his answers lie _inside_ Jason, and he doesn't have the patience to wait anymore.

Scooping up his PM 40 off the Mayo tray, Kirk turns back to the table. Hovers the knife centimetres above skin.

The blade punctures flesh smoothly, sliding through the layers of skin and muscle with no hesitation. Kirk presses gently, guiding the knife along the faint white scratch, a slow glide down to Jason's navel.

Kirk pulls the blade free. Pokes a finger in between, peels back the layers, blackish blood clinging to his scrubs.

Jason's inner cavity is laid bare, ribs and organs and tendons and connective tissue a jumble within. It's beautiful. It's divine. Kirk feels his mouth water as he strokes a delicate finger along the swell of Jason's intestine, baby-pink, webbed with dark-red strands.

A part of Kirk secretly relishes this, loves the intimacy of seeing the most vulnerable, hidden parts of the bodies stretched across the examination table. He feels like a voyeur, almost, like he's seen something he shouldn't have.

It's electrifying, a pin-prick of excitement, rolled up in the urge to _touch,_ to _hold,_ to treat with reverence, to _worship_.

Kirk lets his gloved hands stroke along Jason's organs. Savours the feeling of the cool flesh under his fingertips, the way they warp under the subtlest pressure, the slick-slow glide of blood, dark along the latex of Kirk's gloves.

His heart leaps.

Jason's gorgeous: it strikes Kirk, suddenly, glancing up at his face, taking in the soft curve of his cheek, the slightest peek of his mouth between his lips, serene in death, stretched across the cool metal, organically, orgiastically, like Saint Sebastian tended by the Holy Irene. 

The breath’s stolen from his throat. Kirk's stomach surges, eyes strained sharp, the pooling of water. 

The pity he feels is like a ball of rot in his stomach, heavy and thick. 

Kirk swallows hard, scrubs his eyes. _I just need to finish this, just to see. That's all. I can't make it personal._

He looks back at Jason's abdominal cavity.

There's no tell-tale smell of ruptured bowels or guts, no caustic leak of fluid, no inflammation of the peritoneum, nothing. It looks- it looks perfectly _healthy_ , almost.

Kirk sighs. He's so confused: everything that once seemed to be a lead has disappeared, and now he's just got some dead kid cut open on his examination table like he's ready to teach class again.

Frustratedly, Kirk wipes down his knife, sets it back on the Mayo tray with a little clatter.

It's so slight, he nearly misses it. Kirk freezes. There's no sound in the room but his unsteady breaths. His eyes are trained between Jason's ribs, on the reddish-purple of his muscles interweaving along the bone and cartilage.

And then they shudder. Weakly, barely there. The slightest little shiver.

Sometimes organs move after death. The gut and bowels are the most likely culprits, usually discharging their contents or swelling with gas. But when Kirk looks closer, the kid’s stomach is small, shapely, tucked in against his liver and pancreas. There's no swelling, and Kirk’s gloved fingers gently stroke over the slippery flesh, gripping the loose organ. 

The diaphragm twitches, this time.

Kirk holds his breath. Considering the kid had four bullet wounds in him and was found dead, likely a day later, there shouldn't be any blood in him anymore, nothing to drive the cycle of his body. Shouldn't be. 

His ribs jerk up, harder, this time, as if in spite of all the facts. 

Again. 

And again. 

What was that old thing they were once taught- about the bells being tied to the feet of cadavers in case of “reanimation”? How sometimes corpses jerked, as if they were sitting up? How it seemed like people would rise from the grave, after they’d accidentally been declared dead?

And yet, the coroner should’ve caught this. No way they could've missed it.

Kirk blinks, dumbly, watching as the ribs shudder, gently, swelling up slightly before dropping, diaphragm shuddering, shifting against the pinkish flesh of Jason’s chest cavity, against the thick swell of intestines and the dark jut of his liver.

Gently, Kirk pokes a couple fingers along Jason’s sternum, rubbing the pads along the bone. It’s still cold through his gloves, but it twitches, sharp, and Kirk presses firmly, strokes harder, urgingly.

They'd done that in med school: rubbed the heart to keep it beating. This is a different beast, though. He feels like Dr. Frankenstein, except for he's not piecing man together, he's tearing him apart. 

Playing God, maybe. Seeing if he can bring back the dead.

The ribs jump, under his fingertips. Harder. Faster.

He keeps rubbing, keeps coaxing. Kirk wants to see what might happen, needs to see if anything, anything at all might explain this. _If it could_ , he thinks. In the back of his mind, there's a small section of doubt, hopelessly convinced that this is some elaborate prank.

How could you ever explain regeneration so quickly?

He's so preoccupied with the ribs, with the shivering muscles under his fingers, that he misses the slight twitch of eyelids.

Suddenly, he notices that the bone doesn’t feel cool under his fingertips anymore. And he’s chalked it up to friction, probably, until he looks up and sees the kid’s cracked an eye open, eyelid heavy, the slightest bit of his grey iris visible.

Kirk swallows. Slows his fingers. The ribs jump harder. 

And then the other eye slides open, irises slowly focusing on Kirk, pupils contracting.

Kirk draws his hand back as if burned. Terror rises up out of his gut, slow and choking, like a honey-thick swell of bile. There’s the acrid taste of panic in the back of his mouth, burning hot and heavy.

He’s _breathing_ , now. Steady, quick, out and in, swelling and deflating. Jason’s mouth shudders open, eyelashes fluttering. Kirk’s frozen, transfixed. Jason swallows, gasps a little, shifting against the cool metal, the thin lines of his veins visible, cyan-blue through pale skin.

“Did-” he starts, voice breaking, all weak and shuddery. Kirk gulps. He leans in closer, places a gentle hand on Jason’s hip. Watches the way his lips work, tongue running across them. “I- I-”

 _What is he supposed to say?_ It’s not like they prepare you in med school for when your fucking cadaver comes back to life. Kirk swallows down his fear, suddenly giddy, almost, because-

“Holy shit, you’re alive,” Kirk gasps, watching as Jason blinks, swallowing gently. “Are you- fuck, I’m sorry, shit! I cut you open, oh my god,” he babbles stupidly, wringing his hands together, because _what the fuck?_

Jason raises his head slowly, gazes down his body, as if understanding for the first time where he is and what’s happened to him, before he looks up at Kirk. “It’s-” he murmurs, “S’cool.”

 _It’s cool?!_ Kirk laughs, shock hitting him suddenly. “Oh, okay, oh my god, I’ve gone over the deep end,” he moans, gloved hands grabbing his head. His mind’s whirling; how’s he going to explain this? _Oh, yeah, oops! We thought he was dead, and now he’s chilling out on my examination table?!_ Just his luck; he’s somehow cut up the dead-kid-who’s-not-actually-dead, because why not, right? The universe hates him. 

He’s snapped out of his panic when Jason groans. His hand slides slowly along his hip, wincing as his fingertips brush along the edge of his stomach, blood welling up under his touch. His head rolls a little to the side, just to see Kirk better.

“Can you-” Jason murmurs, “Can you stitch me back up? Please?”

───

Kirk cleans up the incision, wipes away the blood gently, before gathering up his needle.

Jason's laid back against the cool table, eyes slipping closed. Peaceful, almost; a shocking contrast to the incision baring his guts.

“Um, can you- can you explain?” Kirk stutters, sanitizing his needle, dunking it in the cool liquid. Jason's eyes flutter open slightly.

Swallowing, Jason nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m- look, you gotta promise not to tell anyone, man,” he says, tilting his head limply to look at Kirk. Even through the exhaustion present in those grey eyes, Kirk can make out the slightest bit of fear.

Kirk pushes a strand of suture through the eyelet, pulling it taught. “Yeah- of course,” he nods.

Jason stares at him, as if assessing whether he'll be truthful. He's quiet, considering, face blank, before he seems to resolve something, the emotions swirling in those eyes settling.

It's a lot to handle.

“I can’t die. Permanently, I mean,” Jason continues, voice raspy, “For some reason.”

Kirk blinks dumbly. “Oh,” he says, like a fucking moron, although he's not really sure _what_ to say. He's experienced this too much today; enough for a lifetime, probably. Kirk swallows. “So. Do you want some painkillers, at least? I got- I got a lot of sutures to do.”

Jason shakes his head. “I'm fine- I don't know your name.”

“Kirk.”

“I’m good. Thanks, Kirk.”

Kirk just nods, flustered slightly, pulling up his lab stool so he can get in close to Jason. “Tell me if you need a break, okay?” Jason nods, and Kirk pinches his needle, fingers adjusting along Jason's flesh, pushing through the left flap of skin.

Jason flinches, a little, but nods at him to continue.

He's slow, even, thick nylon thread looping black and stark against Jason's pale skin. Kirk does close baseball stitches up Jason's stomach, focused and precise, making sure to line up each puncture, pulling just enough to sew the skin back together. 

He can tell Jason's sore, a little, hands squeezed into fists and white-knuckled, eyes scrunched closed.

“What happened?” 

Jason winces. “With what?” he bites out.

Kirk pulls the sutures tight. “Like, how you ended up here.”

“I-” Jason starts, flinching as Kirk pushes the needle through, “Stupid mistake,” he murmurs, and suddenly Kirk feels sick.

“Shit- I’m sorry,” he whispers, focusing on his fingers, the interlacing of nylon thread, the way it slides along his hands. It's easier, not having to look at the physical remains of Jason’ death.

Jason shakes his head. “Not your fault,” he groans, flinching as the sutures shift gently. Kirk just nods. 

“How’d you,” he murmurs, gently pushing the needle through skin, “How’d the whole not-dying become a thing?”

Jason shrugs, gently, face flushed. “No clue,” he whispers.

Freak accident, Kirk suspects. "And- and how many times have you- you know-"

"Kicked the bucket?"

Kirk nods. _Jesus_ , _this is morbid._

"Mm," Jason hums, "Probably like- 15 times, maybe. Nothing new."

Kirks' sure his shock is written all over his face, because Jason laughs, slightly.

His eyelashes flutter as Kirk pulls the thread through. "It's fine, Kirk," he groans, at a particularly sharp prod from the needle, "I've been around for a while; gets easier with time."

“Oh- okay. Well. Sit tight, I’m a little over halfway done,” Kirk murmurs, trying for gentle encouragement in between his worries and exhaustion and the intrigue that simmers in his gut.

Jason just nods, hissing through his teeth when Kirk pulls too hard on the thread, Kirk whispering apologies as he carefully punctures the soft flesh.

Stitch, pull, stitch, pull. It's rhythmic, soothing. It's a part of his work he's always been careful and dedicated to, ensuring the best treatment possible of the cadavers that come through his labs. 

He’s so wrapped up in his work that he hardly notices Jason anymore. Until he gasps.

Kirk pauses: that sounded a lot less like pain, and a lot more like-

Jason’s flushed against the cool metal, skin burning hot, cheeks pink and mouth open, lips trembling. His dick is hard against his thigh, leaking precum. Kirk swallows.

“You-” he starts, opening and closing his mouth. What does he even say? 

Jason's eyes are heavy-lidded. “Don't- keep going, please,” he manages, voice raspy, keening when Kirk pulls hard on the sutures to close him up, tying off the last stitch along his collarbone.

Kirk swallows. Jason shudders when Kirk sets his tools aside and trails gentle fingers along his newly-stitched scar.

“You're- you're. Fuck, okay,” Kirk breathes out, captivated by the way Jason goes redder, blood circulating, somehow. 

Jason gasps, mouth dropping open, when Kirk pushes his fingers a little harder into the wound. His dick twitches against his stomach. 

Running his tongue over his lips, Kirk shifts. He's already hard in his jeans, and Kirk swallows, biting back a groan at the feeling of his dick rubbing against the fabric of his boxers.

Honestly? He's not even going to try and process how fucked-up this is. Like, Jason was in a goddamn _body bag_ 12 hours ago, legally declared dead, and now he's alive, spread out on Kirk's examination table, turned on, and Kirk wants to fuck him up.

_Why is this his life?_

Jason moans, quietly, squirms against his touch. “God,” he gasps, “Shit, you're hot.”

Kirk feels his face flush. “You- You're hot too,” he stutters, watching as Jason grins. 

“We should fuck.”

Kirk wrinkles his nose. “That's how people get sepsis,” he frowns. Like, he doesn't even want to _think_ about all the shit that's been on this examination table, all the dead bodies that've been cut open by queasy med students.

“Not here,” Jason whispers, grinning, “There's showers, duh. Or, y’know. I could suck your dick. It'll be hot.”

 _Sweet christ_. “I- I, uh- _f_ _uck it_ , yeah-” Kirk manages, face going hot. His dick twitches against the zipper of his jeans, and like that, Kirk's done thinking for the night, leaning in to kiss Jason.

───

This is probably one of the grosser things Kirk's done.

And like, sure, he likes nasty. It’s fun. Usually hot, too. But this might be up there on the list of certified Disgusting, with a capital d.

Actually- now that he thinks about it? This definitely takes the cake. 

Like, when he woke up this morning, Kirk had a normal life. He's not sure how in the span of 24 hours it somehow devolved to fucking some not-dead kid after he'd cut him open, but, y’know. Kirk prides himself on rolling with the punches.

He’s already tossed his apron and scrubs to the ground, left in a crumpled pile next to the examination table. Kirk’s chilly in his pullover and jeans, but Jason’s warm under his fingertips through the gloves, and Kirk pulls him in, the sharp edge of the lab bench digging into the small of his back. 

Kirk's amazed: the bruises around Jason's neck have all but faded, bullet wounds no more than healing scabs. The only thing that's still stark against his pale skin is the long suture, running from his belly to his collarbones, but even that's looking less swollen-over.

He bites hard along the jut of bone of Jason's collar, feeling the way his gut sparks at Jason's gasp of pleasure, writhing under Kirk's teeth.

It hits Kirk, suddenly, when he's got a couple fingers playing along Jason's scar and Jason's moaning, loud against his neck, what’s been knocking around in his head ever since he'd sewn him up. It's only confirmed when he pushes hard on one of the scabs from the bullet wounds and Jason’s dick leaks all over his hand.

“You’re a little masochist,” Kirk breathes out, needling, watching as Jason's cheeks go bright red, mouth open in a pretty gasp. “You like it rough, baby?”

Jason moans, nods a little. 

Well, fuck. 

Kirk grips Jason's shoulder, gently, pushing down, and Jason goes, knees sinking to the cool white tiles, gazing up at Kirk, mouth dropping open slightly, and Kirk’s head swims.

Jason looks angelic, like this, eyelids all heavy and face flushed pink. Like, fuckin’ 16th-century-painting-and-shit angelic. 

It’s heavenly.

“Jesus, there's so much I could do to you,” Kirk whispers, trailing a hand along Jason's cheek, over the slight curve of bone, watching the way he shudders under Kirk's touch.

He goes to pull off his gloves, latex slippery from sweat.

“ _Keep them on_ -”

Kirk pauses, fingers hooked in the wristband. He gazes down at Jason, staring as he squirms, embarrassed, before Kirk lets the elastic snap against his wrist, loud. Jason groans, voice wavering as Kirk grips his jaw hard.

“Shit, you got a thing for latex? Fuckin’ nasty,” Kirk bites out, the fire in his gut sparking into a full burn when Jason moans, pushing his face into Kirk’s touch.

He slides his thumb along Jason's lips, pressing in, tongue slick under the pressure of his finger. Jason’s quick to curl his tongue around Kirk’s finger, eyes slipping shut, letting Kirk poke and prod as he pleases, and _shit_ , if that doesn’t get some fucked-up part of Kirk all hot. One finger becomes two, three, shoving in hard, and Jason moans, eyelashes fluttering as he drools around Kirk’s fingers. 

Kirk swallows, biting his lip as his dick twitches. He shoves his fingers deep, and Jason gags, spit trailing slick and slow down his chin. Kirk pulls his fingers out, captivated by the string of drool stretching from Jason’s reddened bottom lip to his index finger.

“You good?” Kirk murmurs. He needs to know if Jason wants this, if he won't regret it. Jason nods, gasps out a _yeah,_ hands coming up to work at the button of Kirk’s jeans, and Kirk watches him, pleasure twisting in his gut as Jason pulls the zipper down, hooks his slim fingers in the waistband and pulls enough to reveal Kirk’s bulge, straining against his boxers.

Jason leans in, laves his tongue over Kirk's dick, and Kirk moans, hands white-knuckling the edge of the lab bench.

“Shit- fuck,” he gasps, hips canting forwards a little into the slick-hot pressure of Jason’s tongue, and Jason groans, quiet, tongue tracing little circles across the fabric. His eyes flick back up to Kirk’s face, fingers sliding along Kirk’s hips. 

Jason swallows, eyes heavy with want. “Can I?” he murmurs, and Kirk feels his soul slip away. “Yeah- _fuck_ , yeah, please,” he manages, shuddering as Jason pulls his boxers down slowly. Kirk shivers as his dick slips free, the cool air a sharp contrast to the warmth building under his skin. Jason leans in to kiss the head of his dick, precum glistening on his lips, before he spits along Kirk’s length.

It's nasty. It's divine. The glob of spit lands with a splatter against Kirk’s dick, and he gasps, shuddering as some of it slides down, trailing slickly as it drips to the floor, before Jason opens his mouth and sinks down on Kirk’s dick. 

Jesus fucking christ.

Jason starts slow, tongue working along the bottom vein, soon enough bobbing his head, more and more of Kirk's dick slipping wetly through his lips. Kirk moans, hands coming up to tangle in Jason's curls, just gently.

Slipping down farther, Kirk feels the head of his dick bump the back of Jason's mouth, producing this filthy little squelch. Jason's watching him, eyes nearly slipping closed, and Kirk shudders at the feeling of Jason's fingers stroking across his thighs, smoothing over the downy hairs there.

Jason pulls off, coughing, spit thick on his lips. “I want-” he murmurs, fingers sliding around Kirk's dick, tight under the head, “I want you to use me.”

Kirk's pretty sure his brain is mush. Between the haze of Jason jacking him off and the twist in his gut he feels at seeing Jason on his knees, flushed and needy, he's having a hard time focusing on anything else. But as soon as Jason asks for that? God, it's like there's nothing else in the world.

“Yeah, I- shit, _yeah_ ,” Kirk murmurs, one thumb hooking on Jason's bottom lip, “I can do that, baby. Now open up.”

Jason flushes, but lets his mouth drop open. Kirk grips his dick in one hand, pushes the head along Jason's cheek, smearing precum all over his skin. A fucked-up surge of lust hits him at the way Jason moans, one hand reaching down to fist his own dick.

Kirk pushes his hips forwards, groaning at the tight, hot slide of Jason's lips, slow at first, just testing the waters. He's rewarded with the sight of Jason's cheeks hollowing around his dick, spit dribbling down his chin as Kirk shoves forwards harder, faster.

Moaning, Jason relaxes his throat, lets Kirk fuck into his mouth with abandon, and Kirk takes advantage of it, grips his hair tight and shoves his head down onto his dick. Jason gags, spluttering around Kirk's dick, but he swallows and sucks as Kirk's hips surge forwards into the warmth of his mouth. His eyes fill with tears, eyelashes webbed together wetly, and it breaks something in Kirk.

“Bet you'd like it if I fucked your throat raw,” Kirk whispers, “Bet you'd just love to choke on my dick. That what gets you off? Getting used?”

Jason whines, keens when Kirk grips his cheek hard, shoving his hips forwards quickly, savouring the filthy gag it produces, Jason shuddering under his touch, throat fluttery around the head of Kirk's dick.

“Like a fucking blow-up doll. Slut.”

Stroking his cheekbone, Kirk gets a whine, Jason working his tongue along the vein under Kirk's dick. Kirk bucks his hips forwards, presses Jason right down onto his dick, nose bumping against dark curls.

There’s a heaviness to the air around them: Kirk finds that it incites him.

“I should slap you around a little,” Kirk bites out, stroking a hand along Jason's throat, fingers gripping tight right under his chin.

Jason _moans._ Tears slide down his cheeks, slow and glimmery, cool against Kirk's hands. Spit bubbles up at the corners of his mouth.

His voice goes whispery, raspy, hot and sharp at the way Jason's looking up at him. Like a Caravaggio, gorgeously ethereal. An angel, just for him. Heaven and hell, all at once.

A part of Kirk wants to tear him to pieces.

“You'd be such a good little bitch, right baby?” Kirk bites out, groaning at the way Jason nods slightly, desperate. “Yeah, s’what I thought."

Jason pulls off with a watery moan. “Please,” he gasps, coughing, spit dripping thick and slow from his bottom lip, “Do it- fuck, _please_.”

_Fuck._

Kirk cups his cheek, gently. “You sure?” he murmurs, stroking his thumb through the slick spill of Jason's tears. Jason nods.

The coil of pleasure in his gut winds tight. Kirk brings his hand back, slaps across a cheek hard.

There's a sudden crack of flesh against flesh. Jason gasps, shuddery. His dick jumps in his hand, cheek going pale before suddenly flushing bright, bright pink.

“ _More-_ please-”

Another slap, harder. Jason’s dick leaks all over his hand, precum pearly over his fingers as he fucks his hips into the silky-soft friction of his strokes, moaning loud. His cheek is hot, the slightest outline of Kirk's fingers visible.

Kirk pauses. Watches as Jason's eyes haze over. Swallows when he nods again.

_Crack-_

Jason's head snaps to the side, knocked off-kilter, moaning wetly, and then he's coming, dick jerking as he spills all over his hand and the tiles, mouth open in a gasp.

There's a red handprint against his cheek. 

Kirk feels that sudden surge in his veins, only made hotter when he grabs his dick and strokes fast under the head, shuddery with the pleasure that mounts in his gut.

“Ah- fuck,” Kirk gasps, thumb stroking through his slit, “Shit, shit, I’m gonna- _I’m gonna_ ,” he chokes out.

Jason sighs, gazes up at him, eyes lidded with pleasure. “Come on my face,” he moans, and then Kirk's gone.

His orgasm hits him like a shock of electricity, burning hot through his veins, dick jerking in his grasp as his mouth shudders open on a cry, all hot and oversensitive and shivery. Come splatters all over Jason's cheeks and his lips and down onto his neck, all slick and _hot_.

It's like fuzz in his brain, like he's underwater, like tv static. Balanced on the knife's edge, right between life and death, crashing back down again.

Jason's flushed, panting, lips slick, eyelashes fluttering. Come drips down his cheek, pearly as it splatters on the tiles. There's a small little streak of it across his lips; Kirk watches, speechless, as Jason's tongue slides over his lips, soft and pink, licks it up, swallows loud in between their shuddery breaths.

_Jesus fucking christ._

Kirk sluggishly readjusts his boxers and jeans, fingers clumsy around the button. Then he grabs a towel and wipes Jason up. 

Jason swallows. “Shit-” he gasps, “Fuck, ‘m glad you're the one who cut me open. Goddamn.”

Kirk laughs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, stroking over Jason's cheek, savouring the sweet grin it gets, “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading *blows kiss*
> 
> tumblr @[pinkmaggitmp3](https://pinkmaggitmp3.tumblr.com)
> 
> (comments moderated cause this is. a lot. thx much love <3)


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